"The Knight Sir Walter died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.
But there is matter for a second rhyme,

And I to this would add another tale."

The Poet's other tale relates to a journey from Hawes to Richmond, in Yorkshire, in the course of which the traveller came to a well, and three pillars standing in a line, the last on the top of the hill—

"I look'd upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seem'd as if the spring-time came not here,
And nature here were willing to decay."

Standing" in various thoughts and fancies lost," the traveller accosts a shepherd, who tells him the story of Sir Walter's chase in the olden time-that the three pillars mark the leaps of the unhappy stag just before its death, and that the desolation which marks the place is, in his (the shepherd's) opinion, a judgment upon it as the scene of so great a cruelty :

"There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

"Some say that here a murder has been done,
And blood cries out for blood; but, for my part,
I've guess'd, when I've been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy hart."

After saying much more about the place, and his belief that the decay will continue till "trees

and stones and fountain all are gone," the traveller, who is the poet himself, replies in a portion of his philosophy, the introduction of which has, up to this point, been my object:

"Grey-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine-
This beast, not unobserved by Nature, fell;
His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine.

"The Being that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care

For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.
“The pleasure-house is dust; behind, before,
This is no common waste, no common gloom;
But Nature, in due course of time, once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

"She leaves these objects to a slow decay,

That what we are, and have been, may be known; But, at the coming of the milder day,

These monuments shall all be overgrown.

"One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide,

Taught both by what she shows and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."

This is indeed "a lesson" as important as the expression of it in the above lines is beautiful and touching. The stern uses of life cannot be pursued without labour and sorrow. This curse fell upon us with the sin of Adam. We cannot supply the waste of existence but by destruction. We must "slay and eat," and we cannot do this without inflicting pain; but that we should blend our "pleasure or our pride" with the

infliction of pain is no necessity of our natural condition, but mere barbarity. People do not think of this as they ought. There are many sports-mere sports-very unfeelingly pursued; not because they who pursue them are wantonly or deliberately cruel, but they forget that they are inflicting pain, or custom has so hardened them that the suffering which they see they do not perceive. I would urge them to open the eyes of their mind to this matter, and

"Never to blend their pleasure or their pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."

IRELAND.

This

SOME of the political journals, which are not only ready but eager to puff into notice any book which seems likely to promote their party views, have lately been noticing, with much eulogy, a book about Ireland, manufactured by a Frenchman of the name of Beaumont. book is one of a class in which this age of theorising is particularly fertile. The author finds Ireland full of anomalous circumstances, which, so far as observation can tell us any thing about them, appear to arise from peculiarities of moral character and natural disposition, the origin and rationale of which have not yet been traced, nor is it in the least likely that they ever will. Who can tell why American Indians are red, or

African negroes black, or answer the question "how an oyster makes his shell?" But this is a time in which certain confident persons will account for every thing upon general principles or theories, and one of these persons is M. Beaumont, about whose presumptuous book, they who ought to know better, are not ashamed to make a parade. M. Beaumont will have it that all the mysteries of the Irish character are traceable to political institutions-to the aristocracy, and so on; and when he proceeds to show why, he not only gives the merest declamation in lieu of argument, but he blunders as to the facts-namely, the laws and customs belonging to the ownership and transfer of property. This is not to be wondered at, since M. Beaumont is a foreigner; nor is his presumption in writing about what he does not know, as confidently as though he did know it, at all surprising, since he is a Frenchman; but it is rather too much that people of intelligence here should regard the declamation of this foreigner on the subject of Ireland as worthy of any other notice than that of derision.

The knowledge which in England we want about Ireland is a knowledge of facts-of the common habits of the people—for they who are not at all afraid or ashamed to spend their time and their money in going to Bohemia or Wallachia are both afraid and ashamed to cross St. George's Channel into Ireland, or to cross the

Seven Dials into St. Giles's, which is about seven minutes and three-quarters moderate walking from the statue at Charing Cross. It is quite certain that did one-tenth part as many English visit the country parts of Ireland, as do visit the country parts of Germany, the theorising rhodomontade of such a speculator as M. Beaumont would be held very cheap indeed.

In default of personal observation, the next best thing would be books of a genuine description, that is to say, books which describe men and things as they really are. But these are not easily to be had; for professed book-makers find it much easier to fill their books with speculation of one kind or another, than to observe accurately, and state clearly, what they have observed. Mr. Inglis's book on Ireland was a very honest one; but he had not had time to understand what he saw, when he began to write it down and publish it. He was in such haste to teach, that he did not allow himself time to learn. The Irish are a very difficult people to understand, and no man that has not known them intimately for years, is competent to describe them as they really are.

There are, however, some books written by people who do know the Irish well, and thesewhen the authors of them have the rare gift of subduing the national tendency to "fine writing" and romance-are, perhaps, as full of interest as any books of the present day.